


Breathe Into Me

by ChrisF



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Creature Inheritance, Disability, Fluff, Freeform, Homophobia, Imprinting, Intelligent Harry Potter, Intelligent Marcus Flint, Intermittent Explosive Disorder, M/M, Marcus is 15, Paganism, Proofread, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Slytherin Harry Potter, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Swearing, Unbeta'd, Underage - Freeform, Underage Sex, harry is 11, unintentional fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26940562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisF/pseuds/ChrisF
Summary: Timing is everything. It can make all the difference in the world. When Harry Potter gets to Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions before Draco Malfoy and meets another boy it changes the course of the Magical world. Some in small ways, others in large cataclysmic ways. It only takes 5 minutes to change the world...
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Harry Potter
Comments: 89
Kudos: 781





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I should not be doing this with my mountain of unfinished work, but this idea has been nagging at me for weeks and refuses to go away. This is a freeform fic, or what I call a popup. Meaning I write whatever, whenever. There is no outline or word count requirement like I usually apply to myself.
> 
> I don't usually do soulmate fics, but this is my first attempt and before anybody says anything, yes I included Imprinting, but only the barest concept, dealing with Wizards with Creature inheritance (Hence Imprint) but it will differ.
> 
> Lastly, some Warnings. The Tags should be clear but I always get Someone who comments. This is a SLASH fic. I am a Gay man, that will be the focus as far as the pair. Second, this is an Underage fic. As the Tags indicate, Harry is 11. Even if he were 15 it would Still be. Third, I know a lot of Authors like to normalize Homosexuality in Harry Potter fics. This is great but I am not one of them, Its 1991 in the Wizard world and I refuse to believe that a society that can't agree Eugenics is bad is ok with the gay.
> 
> And Please do Comment/Review. Do not be shy or worry about offending me, that does not happen easily and I Love speculation and commentary. Reviews really do keep me motivated

A fifteen-year-old Marcus Flint stood disinterestedly on the stepstool as Madam Malkin poked and prodded – no pardon him, fitted – him for a new wardrobe and set of school robes. His mother would give him the stink eye for saying that, but it seemed fairly appropriate when he hissed as the mauve clad woman poked him in the leg with her needle for the fifteenth damn time!

He fought the urge to snap at her; settling on a non-committal grunt as she apologized, although he used that term in its loosest definition. “Apologies dear, but I did tell you to hold still”

He grit his teeth to stop the ‘Fuck off’ on the tip of his tongue. I wouldn’t have moved if you hadn’t poked me, you arthritic old bat, he thought to himself. Instead he settled on – “Yes ma’am,” he said to her, ground out through clenched teeth. His mother may be a banshee and nag him incessantly for his behavior, but his father would outright hex him. Heirs to the house of Flint, any respectable pureblood house, did not throw public tantrums like a first-year mud blood.

Marcus would have been perfectly content with a resizing charm, but his mother insisted on a clean wardrobe. He thought that she just wanted to spend money, but even so he couldn’t really argue her point. He had just done this same thing the year before, but at fifteen and just over six feet the resizing charms were already stretching the upper limit.

He had argued then, that at least they should go elsewhere for his outfitting, a master tailor like Crimps, or at the least Twilfitt and Tattings and not some commoners robe shop.

His appeal to vanity seemed to hit its mark at first, but his father stepped in, putting an end to the debate. “There’s no need to spend the gold on casual school robes that will most likely be useless within the year.” Ever the practical one, his father. So, Marcus wisely dropped the issue.

So, he stood stoically and allowed her to work, fists clinched at his sides, Malkin’s hideous playing harp playing away in the background. should have been nice. It was meant to be, he knew, but all it did was set him on edge…

He knew that it couldn’t have been that long, but he had no idea how long he stood there and waited before they were interrupted, and he was drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of a bell.

Marcus quirked a judgmental brow as a short kid entered the shop with scraggly black hair, broken glasses and tattered, dirty clothes that were clearly second hand, being at least three sizes too big. So, he didn’t know the resizing charm, or a simple cleaning charm; not unheard of for a first year, he conceded if his parents or a house-elf did the house work and some witches and wizards did choose to stick to Ministry guidelines regarding underaged magic. Although, for the life of him he didn’t understand why anyone would choose to do that. It was the slightly lost look of wonderment that gave the kid away though. Mud blood, Marcus decided, Great.

“First time at Hogwarts dear?” Madam Malkin asked, pegging the kid without looking at him. The kid seemed to pull himself together enough to nod, albeit unseen by the matron. That didn’t seem to faze her, however. “It’ll be Hogwarts robes then. Step up on the stool, I’ll be with you presently. What’s your name dear?”

The boy nodded his head again and did as he was told, coming up to stand on the empty stool next to Marcus. “Yes ma’am,” he remembered himself, saying politely and sounding somewhat timid to Marcus.

This made the taller boy smile vindictively to himself, the corner of his mouth turning up into a smirk that he immediately smothered. Aww, the little lamb was getting overwhelmed. He had seen it a million times with mud bloods. How quant.

The boy continued, answering Malkin’s question. “I’m Harry… Harry Potter.”

Several things happened after that that try as he might, Marcus Flint would never forget, and although no one in the shop knew it would change the course of events in magical Britain forever: some in small ways and others in large cataclysmic ways.

As one might expect upon meeting Harry Potter, there was shock. Both Marcus and the tailor turning to look at him in surprise; but whether it was Malkin’s shock or his moving, she slipped and drove the needle hard into his leg.

Marcus yelled angrily and jerked away. “Fuck!” This caused him to slip off the stool. Reaching out to brace himself, while he didn’t fall, several items in the shop did crashing loudly and causing both the tailor and the would-be first year to call out in fright and shock. Meanwhile, Marcus continued his triad of curses that would do a veteran Auror proud. “Fucking gods damn hell! Watch what you’re doing you old dried up cunt! How your still in business only the Matronae can divine! Eriu’s tits,” he finished muttering to himself.

While it was true that Harry didn’t like bullies and the matron did look rather put out, he found himself laughing quietly to himself. Although, and he would never say it out loud, it was mostly at the older boys outburst; and if he were honest, he wasn’t a ray of sunshine when he was hurt either, not that he could ever repeat what the boy said to Aunt Petunia.

Additionally, Narcissa Malfoy, hearing the commotion from outside the shop, with Draco in tow, changed her mind and decided to concede to her sons demands to shop at Twilfitt & Tattings. “Come Draco. We will shop elsewhere for robes.”

Malkin huffed indignantly. “There’s no need for such vulgarity young man,” she said crossly.

Marcus opened his mouth to shout, his own anger beginning to bubble up and get the better of him. Stupid bitch hurts him, and she has the bloody fucking nerve to be pissy at him! The very thought set him trembling in rage. He balled his fist, intent to lash out at something, the wall, a mannequin, a table, whatever was in reach, but something stopped him. It was so simple and quiet and small that he should have missed it, but he hadn’t and it broke through his rage like a thunder clap… Harry Potter had giggled, fucking giggled and he would never admit it out loud, but it sounded like fucking fairy bells.

Oh, it was still there. He felt it humming in his ears and tingling under his skin, but it didn’t explode. It didn’t boil over like he was accustomed to. He forced himself to close his eyes and breathe. Deep breaths in and out, all the while clenching his fist, doing so, so tightly that his palm became hot and slick as he dug his nails in.

He took a deep breath. “Earth my body, Water my blood, Air my breath, and fire my spirit,” he mumbled to himself almost silently. He imagined he looked rather ridiculous to his onlookers but did his best to ignore it, repeating the line again, this time in Irish. “ Domhan mo choirp, Uisce mo chuid fola, Aer mo anála, Agus tine mo spioraid." Then again in Gaelic "Talamh mo chorp, Uisge m 'fhuil, Adhar m' anail, Agus teine mo spioraid," and back again until he was able to think.

The chant was something he had done since he was six. His da’ had taught him to use it as a focus when he started to lose control. It didn’t always work every time, but most times he could get to a private place to blow up. There was talk as he got older of calming draughts to control his temper, but they would have minimal effect, and neither he nor his parents liked the idea of dependency.

“Are you alright Mister?”

It was Harry who asked the question, his voice quiet, hesitant and unsure. Marcus could have kicked himself. He should, he thought. Gods knew what his father would do if he found out about this, and to make it worse, in front of Harry Potter of all people. Thinking quickly, he started to do damage control. “Yes,” he assured Harry and turned his focus to Madam Malkin. “My sincerest apologies my lady,” he said pouring on as much charm as he could muster. “Is there anything I can do to assist you?” He looked around pointedly at the mess.

Madam Malkin actually laughed. “Nonsense lad … nothing a few cleaning and repair charms can’t handle. If you think you’re the first teenaged boy to lose your temper on me I have news for you,” she chuckled. “You should see some of the girls. Mind you, that was a bit much don’t you think?” She chastised him lightly. “I think that you did more to worry young Mr. Potter here than me.”

Maintaining his facade of contrition, he nodded and turned to Harry. “Yes, of course,” he cleared his throat and actually squatted in front of the other boy. Although, the difference in height was still pronounce. “My apologies Mr. Potter …an unfortunate condition.”

Harry looked up at him curiously and asked – “Condition?” Was the other boy sick?

Marcus looked properly embarrassed for a moment before the emotion disappeared behind the mask of Pureblood civility and he nodded. “It is an unfortunate fact of those that share my particular… heritage. It’s little excuse but as a result I sometimes have trouble controlling my temper and I fear we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot because of it.” He extended his hand. “I’m Marcus. Marcus Flint of House Flint.”

Harry looked up scrutinizing him for a moment, face scrunched in thought and not really focused on the other boy himself. So… that was it. Not sick in the way that people thought of a sick person in general, more like a genetic defect, a disability. At least that’s how he understood it, and Harry didn’t know much about the wizard world yet, but he was fast. If it were a disability of some kind then Marcus couldn’t, or at least had trouble controlling it.

He understood that. After all, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had punished him for years for things he couldn’t control that he now knew was magic. Decision made, mostly out of understanding, but also in some small way to spite his relatives. Also, though it was a small thing, even though his name had shocked the older boy Harry had noticed that Marcus hadn’t stared at him or asked to see his scar. “Nice to meet you Mr. Flint,” He smiled and extended his own hand.

Marcus grinned, flashing over-large teeth and grasped Harry’s hand to shake it. When he did the world shifted. He wasn’t sure how to describe it. It was like gravity shifted. Warmth spread through him; it started where he touched Harry and sped up his arm, into his chest and throughout his whole body. His breath quickened and his heart pounded like thunder in his ears, but his sole focus was the little boy who had a hold on his hand. It was like Harry and his hand were the only thing holding him in place and if he looked away, he’d fly away.

Then… it ended, or at least softened or became more muted. Harry let go of his hand and he came back to earth. He could still feel it though. It was like a tether in the back of his mind. Oh fuck, no… he thought desperately to himself. He thought he knew what had happened, but he prayed to all the gods of England, Ireland, and Scotland that he was wrong.

He tried to hide his panic. “I…” he swallowed hard and began to back away, retreating to the exit. “I have to go. I have other things to do today. You have my measurements, owl me the wardrobe.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather coin purse. Took out a hand full of gold coins and laid them on the counter by the door. He sought out Harry who unsurprisingly looked a little confused and smiled in spite of himself. “I’ll see you at Hogwarts.” He reached into the bag and pulled an even bigger pile of gold. “Get him whatever he wants,” he said to Madam Malkin and left quickly.

Outside the tailors, however, he was far less composed. He looked around the busy alley and shook his head. No, he thought. Keep it together. He was caught between being anxious about what happened and anger about his reaction to it, and that just pissed him off even more.

Both Malkin and Harry had seemed to take it well, but he had… “Damn it!” He wanted to hit something!

No… He shook his head hard, repeating the mantra in his head. Earth my body, Water my blood, Air my breath, and fire my spirit. The first thing was to get home and then he could deal with the fallout, decide what to do once he confirmed or rejected his thoughts. Pushing himself forward he set off down the alley toward the Leaky Cauldron at a determined march.

By that point lunch was already in full swing and the pub was packed. He had to scan the din a few times before he found his mother tucked away in a secluded corner; likely behind privacy charms, nibbling at a platter of sandwiches with a cup of tea. She had her long raven locks stuck up in a loose tail so that it flowed tastefully over her shoulders but wouldn’t interfere with her meal. She had a linen cloth draped over the lap of her black and sapphire robes…

He cleared his throat as he approached, drawing her attention. “Marcus darling,” she called affectionately as she turned to look curiously at the disturbance. “Join me, eat. I assume you’ve finished your fitting.”

“Mother,” he replied simply by way of greeting, plastering a pleasant, boyish smile on his face. He was sure it didn’t extend past his eyes, but he doubted she would see it and wrapped his arms around her neck from behind in a hug. “I would really rather go home if we could.”

“Nonsense,” she chuckled as she leaned back into his embrace, patting his forearm and pointing to the seat across from her. “We’ve been out and about all day, you must be starved.”

He hadn’t really thought about it. Given everything that had happened – not that his mother had any idea – he just wanted to get home but having mentioned it he realized he really was quite hungry. Still, he could eat at home while he studied in his room, not that he planned to tell his mother that’s why he wanted to go home, although it would probably make her happy. “Mum I just really…”

Although he knew it was a lost cause from the look his mother leveled at him. He knew it well; that look that said don’t you argue with me, Marcus Brutus… So, he stopped himself and extricated himself with a sigh, moving around the table and falling into the chair like a pouty troll. “Don’t you sigh at me young man,” she warned sternly.

“Yes mother,” he replied obediently and actively suppressed another petulant sigh.

Mother and son fell into a companionable if not exactly comfortable silence. Although admittedly that was Marcus’s fault, but all he could think about was Harry in the Robe shop. He had every intention of verifying it, but his instinct, the pit that had settled in his stomach, the heat that radiated from his chest since touching the kid, the low hum in the back of his head all told him one thing: he had imprinted on Harry Potter, his soulmate. He didn’t even want to think about what that meant, the implications both for him and his family; but the very thought of denying it made him sick.

Every Pureblood child is taught about the imprint from a young age, around eleven or twelve generally at roughly the start of puberty with the Harpies and Hippogriffs conversation. When a witch or wizard imprinted on a specific person, he became unconditionally bound to them for the rest of their life. The connections of everything else become secondary, and only the imprinted was left to matter, leaving the dominant partner with a deep need to do anything to please and protect the person.

Mud bloods were split on the issue. Those that cared to educate themselves liked to call it Soul-mating, and those with romantic leanings liked to think of it as such. Others not so much, seeing it as bondage.

Part of the dominates duty of care was to be what the imprinted needed: friend, lover, protector, caregiver. Some believed this gave the imprinted authority over the other. It did not. They couldn’t just ask for something, saying they needed it and expect the other to comply. It didn’t work that way. Sometimes an imprinted’s needs weren’t obvious; they could be subconscious, the person not even knowing what they needed.

Marcus shook his head in an attempt to push the thoughts away; an admittedly futile effort, but he stubbornly insisted, ignoring the pit that had settled in his stomach. His mother was right, he decided. So, while his mother nibbled on her single sandwich watching him expectantly, Marcus took a plate of his own saddling it with a variety: Ham and cheese with spring onion, chicken and bacon, roast turkey, and simply because he wanted it a cheddar roll.

His mother smiled approvingly and stood to set about making up a cup of tea, without prompting, for him. “That’s a good lad,” she said without looking at him, navigating the tea set with deceptive efficiency. “Eat up, it’ll help settle your nerves.”

Marcus’s eyes snapped to her, clearly surprised. Did she know what had happened, he wondered slightly frantic. Had she seen what had happened, had Malkin contacted her? That old nosey bitch! …But no, she couldn’t have. Even in the time it took him between the robe shop and the Cauldron, they – he and the message – would have arrived at roughly the same time.

He had every intention of telling her and his Father, but only when he was absolutely sure. It wasn’t something you just told people on a whim.

“Relax, I’m not keeping tabs on you,” she reassured him with an indulgent smile. “…But you need to work on your control. Your anxiety is written all over your face.” She said no more on the subject and slid him his brew, which pointedly had no milk and three sugars. Personally, she was not fond of her sons taste in tea, but she had stopped commenting ages ago, and resumed her place with her own lunch.

Others might have pressed, intent to know what was bothering their child, but she knew that if pressed it would only make him more resistant and she refused to make a public spectacle. So, the couple sat in relative silence for a time, contenting themselves with their meal. As with all things, however, that too came to an end. “Do you happen to know what classes you plan to take this year?”

It was meant to be conversational, but Marcus rolled his eyes, carefully looking down at his plate and stuffed his face to avoid answering. He of course knew the answer, but he knew the question was a pretense. He took care of Magical Creatures, and as a compromise with his dad to be able to play quidditch he took Magical Theory and Arithmancy, the latter of which he sucked at, but it was required to be taken in tandem with Theory.

Care he actually liked. Like Quidditch it gave him something to focus on. He was great with physical, manual tasks, something that he could _do_. Similarly, he was good with Defense despite Quirrell’s efforts, and even decent at potions, thanks to great effort by Professor Snape. Both had academic sides but relied greatly on practical application, but his end of year exams last year hadn’t been great and his Mother wanted him to drop quidditch; but he was gonna be captain this year and like hell he was gonna give that up!

“I’m not dropping Quidditch,” he blurted despite himself, knowing even as the words came out that it was a mistake.”

His mother huffed, amused at her sons protests. “I beg to differ. The agreement was that you keep up your grades and you could be on the team. You did dreadfully in your Transfigurations, Charms, History of Magic and Astronomy exams.”

He snorted in open derision. “Please, we both know History is a joke, and I passed Defense, Potions, Care, and even Theory and Arithmancy, which Dad and I both agreed too to play in the first place.” He could not help the smugness he felt at his sound disagreement.

She conceded to her sons point with a nod. It was true enough; she could give him that small victory. “True, if only just…” He had indeed passed, with a low acceptable, but passed, nonetheless. “Your agreement with your Father, however, does not exempt you from your responsibility to your other courses, especially core subjects.”

He was gearing up to argue before she even finished, but it died on his lips just as quickly and he looked at her dumbfounded. He tried to grasp an argument, but all he could manage was to look at her annoyingly neutral expression slack jawed.

He felt a little overwhelmed; with what had happened and now the possibility of losing quidditch… he did the only thing he could in that moment, he yelled out in anger and frustration. He knew that others in the pub were probably watching now and there’s nothing his mother hated more than the indignity of a spectacle, but he didn’t care. He pushed himself back roughly from the table, dishes clattering and tea sloshing as he stood up and stormed away toward the floo and disappeared in a flash of emerald flame.

* * *

Some hours later, Marcus found himself entering his room, freshly showered. When he had come home, he had gone straight to the training room and started firing off curses in an effort to vent his frustration, and because he knew his parents weren’t likely to disturb him in there.

It was an effective method of… not controlling his anger but releasing it safely. Ever since his first year when he had gotten his first wand – he had been through two or three of them now – his father had taken him there, and kneeling down in front of him said “Marcus… We all know how you get angry sometimes, so angry that you feel like you’re going to explode?” Little Marcus had nodded, looking ashamed. His father had hastened to continue. “No, no, no son. Don’t ever be ashamed about that. It’s not your fault; but whenever you feel that way, whenever you get so mad you can’t control it and it’s got to come out, you take your new wand and come here. You can curse these dummies to Anaon and back.”

When he had come back from the Leaky Cauldron and the confrontation with his mother, he had done just that: yelled, screamed, hit and cursed the dummies into oblivion. He knew he would have to deal with her eventually. The thought of not having Quidditch that year horrified him, but for now, freshly showered and able to think, he had bigger problems.

Tossing his used towel away into the corner for the house-elves to handle, he padded naked over to the full-length mirror in another corner. He took a second to admire himself in the reflection: creamy quidditch toned body, broad strong arms and a chest to match, toned stomach. At fifteen it was by no means a washboard eight-pack, but he could definitely see a couple and the shadow of a couple more.

He turned to look at himself in profile and smirked. He took his right hand and gave his cock a few strokes to get the blood flowing, an easy seven inches, almost eight hard with room to grow, uncut – he understood a lot of the mud bloods did that, but he didn’t understand why they would mutilate themselves. It didn’t help their arguments of equality much – and nestled in a light dusting of pubic hair as dark as the hair on his head.

Harry could definitely do worse, he thought. The thought brought his admiration to a halt, and he sighed, not angry this time but more in weary acceptance. “Conby,” he called the household elf. The Flints had three elves: Conby the household elf, an elf to handle the grounds and gardens, and a kitchen elf.

Conby popped in and answered quietly so as not to startle Marcus. “Master Markie be calling,” he asked in a half statement completely unmindful of Marcus nudity.

Marcus actually smiled, amused by Conby’s inability to pronounce his name. “Yes,” he said moving to sit at his desk situated by the window at the end of his bed. It was piled with unfinished summer homework. He would have to finish it soon. Hogwarts started in a week. “I need a book from the library, the Runic Encyclopedia.”

House-elves didn’t really have the wherewithal to read complex texts. Kitchen elves might be able to read a grocers list, or at a stretch a recipe but anything more complex and they struggled. They were, however, exceptional at remembering things, such as what was in the house they cared for and where it was. He wished he could do that. It would make school that much easier. “Also, tell Gosley that I need tea, Chamomile and she knows how I like it.”

“Of course, Master,” Conby nods and popped out. It’s only about five minutes before he comes back, holding a saucer of steaming tea with a large tome floating next to him. The book came to rest on a pile of unfinished parchment while Conby gently sat the tea on the bare spot on the desk. “Gosley says to be mindful not to scold yourself.”

Marcus chuckles as Conby pops out. “I will. Thank you, “he said to the empty room.

He sat there for what felt like hours, looking between the book and the symbol that looked to be almost burned into his hand, looking like an angry burn-scared backward seven where his flesh had touched the younger boy. Harry would likely have a similar mark somewhere on his body.

“Ah-ha!” he called out triumphantly finally. He looked at his palm and at the page again to verify.

> **Laguz – “Log-uhz” – Literally: “Water” or Ocean – Esoteric: Unconscious, Collective Memory**
> 
> **Rune of the unconscious context of becoming or the evolutionary process. Rune of Life’s longing for itself.**
> 
> **Psi: emotion, psychic powers, unconscious mental processes, love, dreaming**
> 
> **Energy: life energy, ocean spirit, origins of life, collective unconscious, the astral plane, love as unity, evolution**
> 
> **Mundane: water, imagination, occultism, dreams**
> 
> **Divinations: Life, passing a test, sea of vitality and of the unconscious growth, memory, dreams; or fear, circular motion, avoidance, withering, depression, manipulations, emotional blackmail, lack of moral fiber, fantasy, poison, toxicity**
> 
> **Water is the symbol of unconscious and invisible Life forces. All of life is dependent on water, and therefore Laguz represents the universal ocean, the supreme unity of all life: past, present and future. The dream state and the Jungian “shadow” element both linger beneath its surface, and the human unconscious is revealed when explored and exposed to the conscious mind. We ‘take the plunge’. To the runic initiate the unconscious forces are controlled for good use through mastery of runic skills. Still, the initiate understands the potency of the unconscious sea to break loose from its control and is ever watchful.**
> 
> **The substance of Laguz is everywhere present, pervades all things and underlies all manifestation. It is the living energy out of which everything is made. It sustains and enriches any idea that is projected into it. The ability to see clairvoyantly and into the future are psychic talents associated with Laguz, as is protection from physical and psychic poisons.**
> 
> **The rune can be used in establishing a communications link from your conscious mind, under willful intent, to the unconscious mind of another. Caution and much wisdom must be exercised in such subtle manipulations.**
> 
> **Water is a psychically chargeable medium, and this includes all vital liquids such as blood and spittle. These are the fluids that carry your Life Force and act as a bonding medium for many, if not all, of your psycho-spiritual constructs…**

It continued like that for pages and pages, but it all essentially meant one thing: Bonding medium for Psycho-spiritual constructs – i.e. magical connections – Love and love through unity. He wanted to be angry, to deny it, but he just didn’t have it in him just then.

Runes were never exact. He didn’t take the class, but he knew enough from Terrence, and he wasn’t stupid. Imprints were rare, the likelihood of a wizard or witch finding their mate in their lifetime was slim, but it was taken very serious and accordingly his parents – even though they weren’t themselves - had made sure he knew and understood all that there was to know.

His thoughts were broken by a knock on the door, but the person did not wait for permission. A large man of almost seven feet tall, broad, resembling Marcus, of about seventy with slightly greying hair came in.

Like Conby, he was similarly unconcerned with Marcus state of undress. “I think you and I need to talk,” he said evenly but clear that it was not a debate.

“Dad, “ Marcus said as he stood up. He grabbed his wand from the end of the bed where he had left it to go shower. “Accio bathrobe,” he said with a swish and a plush blue bathrobe flew into his hand from the closet.

“You want to tell me what happened today?” It was not a question.

Marcus laughed darkly. “That’s a loaded question, where would you like me to start?” But he continued before the older man answered. “Mum threatened to make me quit the team, and – Oh yeah! I Imprinted!” He raised his voice, but in hysterics, not anger.

His dads eyes widened in shock at the pronouncement. He took his wand from his robe pocket and waved it haphazardly at the door and it swung closed with a click. “Sit down. Tell me what happened.”

So, he did; Marcus told his dad everything that had happened that day – excluding his new bond mates name. He spoke about meeting them at Malkin’s, that they were a would be first year. He told the man about the Imprint, what it felt like when they had touched and the epic shifting of gravity that he felt.

And even though he hated it, he told about how he had left it. “After that I made my way to the cauldron. I just wanted to come home and verify it all.” He waved at the book with his right hand. “Oh and…” he showed the man the corresponding rune on his palm.

“I know I handled it all like shit.” He ignored his dads look at his swearing. “But I just… And then Mum threatened to take away quidditch… I came home and went straight to the training room.”

Flint senior peered silently at his son for several moments. There was quite a bit to unpack in all of that. Eventually he spoke, carefully and deliberately. “You should not have disrespected your mother like that… but we can deal with that in a moment. Who is your Imprint?”

Here, Marcus actually hesitated. He knew that he couldn’t hide it forever. He didn’t even really want to try, but… So many problems. First of all, his Imprint was a boy. Homosexuality wasn’t forbidden in the magical community; people did acknowledge it, especially given cases like his, but it wasn’t exactly smiled on.

Then there’s the fact of who… “Harry Potter.” He knew what people said about his family, and in all honesty, they weren’t completely wrong. His family was dark in nature, for him to be imprinted to Harry Potter… there would be an uproar.

The two men were silent for a while. Marcus waited for his dad to react, to explode. The explosion never came. Instead, Senior vaulted forward and wrapped Marcus in a crushing hug. “Congratulations, this is fantastic news.”

Marcus stiffened in surprise. “You’re not mad,” he asked upon release.

“Well it’s not exactly ideal, but it’s an Imprint! You know how rare that is. If you mean that it’s a boy…” he stopped to consider his words. “I won’t say that I understand, or that I’m one hundred percent comfortable, but I’m not homosexual, and its not as if you had a choice in the matter.”

Marcus let out a choked laugh for a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding “I didn’t exactly know I was gay either.”

“And there are worse. It could have been Dumbledore.”

Marcus looked suitably horrified and disgusted at the suggestion. “Dad!” He exclaimed, glaring at the man, an effect that was lost by both laughing quite hard.

“Now the first thing you need to do is write the boy,” his dad said when they had gotten control of themselves. “Apologize for what happened in the shop, and also start to get to know the boy. You can judge where to go more thoroughly at Hogwarts…”

The two continued to talk for a while, a little about Harry, but mostly just a father and son conversing, but eventually that came to a close. “Well, I think its time to call it a night,” the older man said as he stood up and made for the door. “Have a good night son.”

Marcus was alone for a minute after that. Then his dad stuck his head back in. “Oh, and by the way, you’re grounded till you leave for Hogwarts….”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple of notes to begin. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed alike. I'm glad you all enjoyed it, and I hope you like this chapter.
> 
> Also, to a question that no one is asking but is a frequent complaint I see. Metric vs Imperial: Yes I know it's the UK and Metric is standard. However, the Wizards are notably behind the time in many ways, if the 18th or 19th century. I posit that they would still use imperial measurements

The eleven-year-old Harry Potter stepped out of the lav at Kings Cross station, looking down at himself one last time and adjusting his shirt. Gone were the old rags that had belonged to his cousin. He’d tossed them in the bin in the toilet as he’d left, and in their place was an outfit that actually fit and if he could say so was actually quite nice. 

He had asked Madam Malkin, the woman in the Robe shop if she sold… Muggle Apparel, he reminded himself of the new term in his vocabulary, and she nodded stating that because of the number of muggleborns she did business with that she did in fact handle muggle clothes as well as traditional wizard-wear. With this in mind he quickly made a decision and told her that he wanted a completely new wardrobe which consisted of both muggle and magical attire.

With this in mind, the two had set to work building him a new closet. He told her, however, that he was hopeless at that kind of thing – fashion in general – and asked for her professional opinion as a tailor. As a result, they had worked for several hours while she had measured him, discussing, and debating all manner of things: colour schemes, fabrics, personal style, and tastes, of which he didn’t have much to go on himself. They were still in conversation when Hagrid had returned from the Leaky Cauldron with Hedwig, the most beautiful snowy white owl he had ever seen. By the end of it though he had more clothes then he had ever had in his life, or he would.

Malkin had sent him the finished product in a shrunken chest two days later, much to the consternation of the Dursley’s but they were too scared to say much. So, as he exited the toilet at Kings Cross, he wore a pair of black Bluchers with white cotton socks – his old ones were wool and he hated them with a passion – and a pair of semi-casual black linen trousers with a loose crimson red dress shirt.

After leaving Malkin’s, thanking the woman profusely for her time and tolerating him – to which she had simply laughed pleasantly and waved him off. “Nonsense, it’s not as if I did it out of kindness alone.” She was, of course, referring to the fact that she had been paid, albeit not by Harry. He had then asked Hagrid if the half-giant knew where he might get new glasses, figuring that if he was going to do it – shop for himself – he may as well go all out.

As it turned out, Hagrid had in fact known a place Harry could go. It was called Vivid Visions: Everyday eyewear for the on the go wizard. Harry thought it was cute, and after a twenty-minute consult with a wizard who Harry discovered was muggleborn, bought a pair of rimless rectangle gunmetal grey eyeglasses. The wizard in question had even applied a sticking charm so that they would stay on his face free of charge.

All told, it was well into dark before Harry had finished his shop and had been reluctantly returned to the Dursley’s. He was actually a bit put out that he hadn’t run into the other boy, Marcus again while shopping. Although he couldn’t be too put out. He had been forever.

Harry subconsciously adjusted his outfit again, still unaccustomed to clothes that actually fit, and looking over his trolley a final time, took off into the crowd.

Truthfully, he had been resistant to the idea of accepting Marcus Charity, at least to himself that was how he had first viewed it when the other boy had left the gold and said buy whatever he wanted. He thought about the Dursley’s, his uncles voice coming to him complaining about the burden of his care and how he had to spend good money feeding and clothing him, his ungrateful freak of a nephew; but he had quickly forced that thought away with a ruthlessly brutal mental shove. No, he roared angrily to himself! No, the Dursley’s were wrong. They were liars. Vernon was scared of him, always had been. He wasn’t stupid. Harry saw the fear and the hatred every time he had a magical outburst – not that he’d known what it was at the time – and Aunt Petunia’s jealousy.

This was his chance to separate from all that, a place with lots of people like him who didn’t look at him with distain, loathing, jealousy, and fear. No, he was famous here and when people looked at him it was in awe, admiration, respect and even gratitude. It surprised him. It was a lot to take in, and if he were being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure how to handle the fame thing or how he felt about it. It wasn’t as if he remembered that night, or what if anything he had done to survive deadly magics. He hadn’t even known anything about it, or magic in general outside of fairytales and folklore and even that was sketchy – the Dursley’s had discouraged anything to do with him and magic – but he’d take fame and respect over what the Dursley’s offered him any day; and part of being ‘The New Harry Potter’ was not looking like a street urchin out of Oliver Twist. Besides, wasn’t it impolite to refuse a gift?

For the first time, probably in his whole life Harry thought he was happy. Although, he granted that he didn’t have much to compare it too, but this must be it. He was getting away from his relatives – that was the biggest thing – and going to a place where he wouldn’t be looked down on, where he was accepted and celebrated for who he was. He had money. Although it wasn’t the money itself that he cared about; although again, that was nice, he smiled to himself again in appreciation of all of _His_ new stuff, but it was more so the sense of comfort and self-reliance that came with it…

And now, to top all of that off Harry had friends! It may seem odd, but Harry had never had friends. All his attempts at them having been pushed away because of the Dursley’s lies – be they Vernon and Petunia painting him as a delinquent - or Dudley literally chasing them away. And he wasn’t just talking about Hagrid, though he did consider the half-giant to be a friend.

Rather, he meant Marcus, the boy that he had met rather unorthodoxly in Madam Malkin’s shop. Yes, he had hoped to see the teen in the alley again that day, but when that hadn’t happened, he hadn’t expected to hear from him until they got to Hogwarts. He had been pleasantly surprised, he could admit – and so were his relatives – when the very next morning their breakfast was interrupted when a large black and grey spotted eagle-owl swooped down the stairs and into the kitchen. It came to perch on the back of Dudley’s chair looking at Harry expectantly.

They all had very different reactions: Dudley looked frightened and tried to duck away without drawing its attention; Vernon turned a dangerous shade of puce that made Harry think his heart might explode from the rage, but since Harry had returned from Diagon Alley the man had been too afraid to speak up; meanwhile Petunia frowned and placed a cautious hand on her husband’s shoulder as if to prevent him from acting rashly.

For his part, Harry looked at the owl queerly. He knew what it was, of course, that wizards used owls as a means to deliver post, but he was at a loss as to who would be writing to him. The owl eyed him imperiously and stuck it’s leg out expectantly. As Harry took the letter, it occurred to him, however briefly, that maybe it was Hogwarts telling him that it was all a mistake. That was stupid, he thought and pushed the thought away ruthlessly. So, with care, he took the letter from the animal with a quiet thank you and walked over, opening the kitchen window so the owl could take its leave.

Without acknowledging his relatives, Harry left the kitchen without a word, turning the envelope over and over in his hands, inspecting it. There was nothing overtly special about it: a plain white envelope with his name in black script on the front. The only notable thing about it, Harry thought, was the sapphire blue wax seal on the back with an imprint of a hulking, roaring bear.

As it turned out the letter ended up being from Marcus. Although, he used the term loosely, he thought with a grin when he looked at it. It was more of a note, being only a few short sentences. It said simply:

> **_Harry,_ **
> 
> **_It’s been suggested to me that it was rude to leave so quickly and that I should apologize. I did not mean to insult you if I did, but I meant what I said. I will see you on September 1 st._ **
> 
> **_Yours,_ **
> 
> **_Marcus_ **

****

It was worth noting, and Harry hadn’t even noticed until a day or two later when he was reading it again that Marcus had not actually apologized, yet the way Harry read the statement he wasn’t offended. In fact, he found it strangely amusing.

Harry responded to the note saying that he was not offended. He debated on whether or not to say that he had been more worried about the boy then upset, but decided against it, not wanting to seem weird to a boy he had just met and instead thanked him for his generosity in supplying him with a new wardrobe.

Subsequently, in the days leading up to September first Harry and Marcus corresponded frequently in the form of notes and letters, the former more often than not in the teens case. As such, learning very quickly that his new friend wasn’t very talkative, Harry took the lead. He would tell Marcus about his day, such as it was. The Dursley’s mostly left him to himself now, so there wasn’t much to tell, but he also asked questions, most of which Marcus seemed content to answer. He asked all manner of things: about Magic, about Hogwarts, about things that he read that he didn’t understand or wanted clarification on, about what it was like growing up in the magical community. Harry was sure that had it been in person instead of in a letter that Marcus would be quite annoyed with him.

By the time that the first came about, Harry was bouncing with excitement. He’d woken up at four a.m. and could not sit still. He had tried to read more of his books, he had reread all of his correspondence, inventoried his supply list and packed and re-packed his things, double and triple checking it all. He didn’t want to leave anything behind.

Now there he was, standing at the platform facing the wall between nine and ten. Truthfully neither his Hogwarts letter nor Hagrid had been very clear about the location of platform nine-and-three-quarters, but as it turned out that was by design, being camouflaged from the muggles. A book, one of many, he got from Flourish and Blotts – A History of Magic – explained where it was and that its location had been concealed when the Statute of Secrecy was instituted in 1689.

He took one last deep breath to steady himself. This was it, the moment of truth. When he stepped through the barrier his life would be changed forever. “Here we go Hedwig,” he said to the owl in the cage with his things on the trolley, and took off at a run toward the barrier, eyes clenched tightly.

When he hit the wall, as it were, it felt strange. It wasn’t cold but he shuddered as a chill raced up his spine. It felt… he imagined it like he had dived in a vat of Elmer’s glue, as all the sounds muffled around him; and then the sound came rushing back – a jumble of undecipherable noise and conversation.

He opened his eyes and released a breath that he hadn’t realized he had held and looked around him. The first thing he noticed, of course , was the massive red steam engine. It wasn’t really something you saw frequently in London. A smile spread over his face as he looked around the platform. Aesthetically speaking, it wasn’t that much different than the muggle side. There was a healthy crowd, but not as many as he had expected, not that he had known what to expect. Then again, he had made sure to arrive with time to spare. He looked at his watch, just a cheap digital little thing that Dudley had long abandoned and frowned when he noticed it told him nothing – the display was blank. He shook his head, it didn’t matter.

As he had noted, there wasn’t a great deal of difference that he could see. Notably there was a lack of electronic equipment, and there were a line of what looked like fireplaces on the far side of the platform along one wall which Harry found interesting, but at the end of the day it was a platform of parents and students going off to school. There were a couple of what looked like vending stalls, selling what Harry assumed must be the usual fare of snacks and pastries, Coffee and tea, whatever sort of newspaper the magical community subscribed to. All told it was shockingly… normal.

What struck him was… he struggled to describe it. What struck him was how clean it was, and he didn’t mean physically, the platform itself was fine. What he meant was the air. Harry took a deep breath, inhaling. It felt fresh and clean in a way that muggle London just didn’t. Gone was the smog and pollution leaving just the fresh, slightly crisp September air; that and the enticing smell of coffee.

On a whim, feeling good all around. Harry stood a bit straighter and made his way to the stall with the shortest line and waited his turn, When he came to the front, a young lady of about eighteen or nineteen if he had to guess greeted him with a chipper smile. “Well good morning and welcome to Double Bubble. How can I help you this morning?”

Still smiling, he nodded politely in greeting. “Yes, I’d like a small coffee with just a splash of cream and two sugars if it’s no trouble?” He asked the barista holding up pinched fingers to show just how little cream he wanted. He had never told the Dursleys, of course, but having to wake so early to get them going he would often pour himself a cup before they came down. “I’d also like a copy of today’s paper if I can.” The witch hesitated. “I’m sorry,” he questioned. “Is there a problem?” It was a fair question. He was new to the magical community, and while there was no strict prohibition on serving minors coffee – he assumed that was the issue – on the muggle end, he didn’t know much about the magical side of things yet.

The young woman laughed. It was sort of forced and slightly awkward in what Harry assumed was both an attempt to be polite and ease tension. “Well, no not specifically, but…” she eyed him in an appraising manner. “You’re what, eleven, twelve?”

He found himself annoyed, both by the question and the inference behind it. What, was it so astounding that he might need or want a little caffeine to start the day? If you asked him later, he couldn’t tell you why. He had no idea what made him say it, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Yes, and what are you, eighteen, nineteen? I’m glad to see that you have a grasp of basic math’s.” He wanted to be mortified. He was sure that his cheeks flushed, but he forced himself to remain passive and stood a bit straighter.

She reared, shocked by his response, but at least had the decency to look embarrassed. “oh, of… of course, just a moment,” she acquiesced in a whisper, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

Harry allowed himself a moment of private satisfaction as she set to work on his order, lips turning into a slight smirk. He was proud of himself; not necessarily of his rudeness – although, if he were honest with himself that had been fun. He’d have never done that before with the Dursleys – but even though it was small and insignificant, he was proud that he had stood up for himself.

“Here we are,” the barista said pulling Harry from his musing. This time when she spoke it was far less chipper and more professional. “One small coffee, splash of cream and two sugars and today’s copy of the Daily Prophet. That’ll be five sickles. Will there be anything else this morning?”

Harry considered her for a moment. No, he thought. He wouldn’t push it. He thought that she might have overcharged him as it was. Yeah, did you spit in my coffee, he wanted to ask, but decided against it. “No, thank you,” he shook his head smiling politely. “Have a nice day.”

He collected his things and turned to go, making his way to the train. He stood before the train trying to work out the logistics. Strictly speaking, it wouldn’t be too hard to get all his luggage on the train himself; a couple of trips maybe, but afterword’s… “Actually, I wonder if it has a luggage compartment?” He hadn’t been on one himself, but he knew that muggle trains had them.

He looked to the back of the train and resolved to check. As he turned to go, he heard a pop. Turning to look he jumped, shouting in shock as some sort of little creature stood in front of him. The first thing he noticed was bulbus yellow eyes looking up at him, framed by a long-pointed nose and bat-like ears. It was slightly hunched over and wore a little black toga with a sigil embroidered on it that Harry recognized as the Hogwarts crest. “Gooksy is sorry for scaring young sir, but Gooksy be helping sir if sir likes.”

Harry laughed, embarrassed at himself. “No, no, you’ve nothing to apologize for. I was just startled. I’ve never seen…” Harry hesitated, unsure of how to say that he had never seen whatever sort of creature Gooksy was. “…One of your kind before.”

The little thing poked itself in the chest with its thumb and spoke with what Harry thought was pride. “Gooksy is a House-elf. We be serving wizards like you. I be serving at wizard school.”

Harry smiled at the elf’s enthusiasm. “Well I’m Harry Potter,” he held his hand out for the elf to shake. “And I’d definitely appreciate the help.”

Gooksy was so shocked, not so much by Harry’s name; although, it was a surprise, but more so that a wizard had offered his hand in greeting that he froze and just sort of stood there as Harry started the cart toward the back of the train. He eventually pulled himself together and popped to catch up, standing in front of Harry. “No, no, no!” Gooksy said with a slight frantic edge. “Gooksy will handle that. You be getting on the train.”

He really did need to be getting on the train, he thought, but he didn’t want to be rude. Well, you kind of already blew that one, today didn’t you? Harry thought cynically to himself but ignored it. “I don’t mind helping. There should be plenty of time.”

This did not have the desired effect. In fact, his kindness only seemed to agitate the elf farther. “No, Gooksy couldn’t,” it exclaimed, shaking its head vigorously and pulling at its ears distraught. “No, that wouldn’t be right. Gooksy is a good elf. He be doing his job.”

Harry raised his hands in surrender, trying to calm the elf. “Alright, alright,” he said calmingly, gesturing for the elf to stop. “I’ll leave you to it. I didn’t mean to offend you. Just let me take a couple things and I’ll be on my way.” He cautiously reached over to pick up the coffee and paper which were resting next to Hedwig and her cage on his trunk with one hand, and the cage with the other. “Come on girl,” he said to the owl and boarded the train at the closest car entrance. “Let’s leave our new friend to his work, yeah?”

Boarding, he looked left and right respectively at the long corridor of cabins and shrugged, turning right, and heading toward the back. He passed several, some closed and some open with one or two passengers inside. He continued on till he found an empty cabin. “With any luck I’ll find Marcus at some point,” he said to himself. For the time being, he sat Hedwig’s cage town on the bench just inside. “May as well get comfortable.” He took a big swig of his coffee and hummed in appreciation. He sat it in the window and took a seat. He propped one leg up into the seat and reclined with his back to the window, and unfolded the paper, looking at the front page:

> **BOY-WHO-LIVED COMES TO HOGWARTS!**
> 
> **Myrtice Craft**
> 
> **_That’s right readers and fans! Although, for legal reasons, at the time of printing Harry Potter, Britain’s own Boy-Who-Lived hasn’t actually arrived at Hogwarts, but for those of us good with the numbers…_ **
> 
> **_It is, in fact, that time of year again, with many a young witch and wizard headed off to Scotland to begin formal magical training, and Harry Potter, who according to public record turned eleven in July is expected to be among them. In fact, this reporter has it on good authority that The Boy-Who-Lived was spotted in Diagon Alley last week shopping for school supplies with the Hogwarts Game Keeper, Rubeus Hagrid._ **
> 
> **_This raises a multitude of questions, the most prominent being, to this reporter, why was he with an expelled former student and not a qualified professor who can properly assist and answer any questions our hero may – nay probably – has?_ **
> 
> **_You will no doubt remember, after that horrible, but for many of us great night in 1981 Harry Potter was withdrawn from the magical community and taken to live in relative seclusion for his safety with his muggle relatives…_ **

Harry continued reading the article with mild interest. Most of it was biographical information that he already knew, be it from Hagrid or things he had read in the week prior, but there were a few interesting tidbits he had not. For example, apparently where he lived was fairly common knowledge. Come to think of it, he did remember several occasions growing up where people would walk by the house and either wave at him enthusiastically or take pictures, some of them were even brave enough to approach and offer him treats. Petunia, of course, hadn’t liked this, and some of those people had been rather strangely dressed.

Another thing Harry had not known was the circumstances around Hagrid’s expulsion. Of course, the man had told him that he had been expelled, just not that the reason revolved around the death of a fellow student. Harry wasn’t one to judge people. He had been judged enough based on the opinions of others, but it was cause for concern and he resolved to be cautious around the half-giant.

“Term hasn’t even started yet and I find you hiding in a corner reading,” a statement that drew Harry’s attention. “A Knut says you end up in Ravenclaw. Bookworms…”

Harry looked up, in the direction of the voice and there, in the door stood Marcus, heavy, broad frame blocking the entrance. He must have been there for a moment, Harry guessed. He was leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest, grinning like he’d been observing for a while. Harry must have been sitting there longer then he thought. He could see the previously empty hall bustling with activity, hear that the low hum of activity outside had increased in volume.

We can’t all be meat-head jocks, he wanted to say in response; or any other of a number of clever smart ass responses, but they were all for naught, imprisoned behind the smile that bloomed on his face the moment he saw the teen. “Marcus!” He yelled, every bit the high pitched happy eleven-year-old. He launched himself up off the bench at the other boy, wrapping his arms around his waist, holding tightly, enjoying the warmth he felt as he rested his head on Marcus’s stomach. He knew that he should let go, but for the life of him, he didn’t want to.

For his part, Marcus hesitated a moment, shocked by the younger boy’s sudden, but honestly not unwelcome embrace. He felt the bond flare to life after a week of no physical contact. He had thought several times over the course of their letters about telling him about the imprint. He knew it was a conversation that they needed to have, but for the life of him he didn’t know how! Even if he used the simpler explanation that the mud bloods did, how did he explain to a kid, one he had just met, Oh and by the way you and I are soulmates now. He wasn’t the most skilled communicator; he barely had a handle on his emotions let alone other people, but he didn’t think that would go well.

He shook himself mentally, forcing the thought away and wrapped his arms around Harry. He could worry about that later. For the time being he just let himself enjoy Harry’s affection. The two stood there for a few moments before he chuckled. “I’m starting to think you missed me.” Harry pulled back, but notably did not let go and glared at the taller boy half-heartedly, fighting the flush that lit his cheeks. He took a second to look him over, looking at his outfit. “You look fantastic.”

The moment was broken by a loud whistle, the last warning to board the train for departure. Harry let go of Marcus and went back to his seat by the window. Marcus followed him. “Well, I’m happy that you like it. You bought it.”

“Damn!” Marcus exclaimed in faux disappointment. “I should have sprung for lingerie!”

The young wizard was scandalized. He wasn’t sure how exactly to respond to something like that and he swatted Marcus in the arm with a laugh. “Bite me,” he said, but it lacked any heat. Although, that might be because it was all once again in his face. He wasn’t offended or embarrassed. He thought for sure that Marcus was teasing him, yet some part of him in the back of his mind wondered; and the thought that someone might want to see him in something like that when everything he’d ever been taught said that things like that were inappropriate…

“So, what did you have your nose buried in anyway?” Marcus asked him.

“Oh,” he had completely forgotten about the paper. He grabbed it and shoved it at Marcus. “Just the Daily Prophet. It seems that I was spotted,” he said humorously. He took his coffee from the sill and noted absently that at some point during their banter they – the train – had left the station. “Any hope I had of a quiet entrance is probably gone,” he said sipping, surprised it was still hot.

Mm, Marcus hummed and nodded, mouth sown up into an impressive frown line in obvious disapproval. He figured that, that kind of thing would be an issue. His mate was Harry-fucking-Potter for gods’ sake, but he didn’t like the idea of his mate’s business being plastered all over the paper for the whole world to see.

Harry must have seen the look on his face. “You know I didn’t have anything to do with it. It’s not as if I went to them and said ‘Hey, by the way…’”

Marcus’s stomach did a little flop, Harry thought he was upset with him? He sounded both agitated and upset, timid insecurity waring with indignation. He immediately dropped the paper and focused on Harry, wrapping arms over the boys shoulders, and pulling him against him. “It’s not you. What pisses me off is the Prophet advertising your business.”

Marcus explanation made Harry smile, and he felt himself relax into the warmed of the older boy. “My hero,” he teased with a sigh that was only half playful. “…But you know that this is probably going to happen a lot. Apparently, I’m a bit of a celebrity.” This was said with an ironic lack of humor.

The older boy just growled, a deep guttural displeasure. “You big bear,” Harry poked him with a smile. Silence descended on the pair for a while. The only sound being the soft, deep rhythm of the train on track, neither noticing, nor caring that they were still wrapped around each other until Harry ended it. “Oh,” he remembered, sitting up and pulling away as a result. “I wanted to show you my wand!” He pulled it from his pocket and held it out to Marcus. “Eleven inches, oak and a core of troll heart-string. Good for curses apparently.”

Marcus smiled, entertained by his enthusiasm, but pointedly did not take the wand as he looked. “Very impressive,” he said, and it was: Eleven inches, broad in diameter, polished and stained oak with long swirls of gold along the shaft. “That must have taken a while.” He remembered his own excitement when his father had taken him to France for his first wand. He had broken it twice and had to have it replaced, but he had shown it off to anyone and everyone who would look. His very own wand, not his dad’s that he would sometimes swipe and try to cast with.

Harry nodded. “Oh yes, we tried every wand in Ollivander’s, even one that he said was a phoenix feather. We had to floo…” Harry took a second to wrap his tongue around the new word. “Floo his grandson Gieyson in France. He didn’t seem happy about that.”

The duo were interrupted by someone in the Hall. “What’s this now,” a tall figure with brown almost Blond hair and robes like Marcus’s with the crest of a green serpent. He had two other boys with him. “Marcus, did you kidnap an ickle-firstie and convince him to show you his wand?” The boy smirked “If you’re gonna be a jobby jabber, you might wanna at least closed the door.”

Marcus glared at the new arrival. “Fuck you Terrance,” he gave him the bird.

The trio just laughed and invited themselves in, taking a seat. “Who’s this then,” he asked motioning to Harry.

Marcus looked at Harry with a raised brow. It was up to him if he wanted them to know or wait till they got to Hogwarts. Harry just shrugged. It really didn’t matter. “Harry Potter,” he said extending his hand.

His introduction was med with silence. He saw their eyes widen slightly. “No,” another of the new trio said disbelievingly. “You’re not Harry Potter.”

After a second Harry just shrugged, sitting back, and putting his wand back in his pocket. “Believe what you want, but it’s generally considered rude to ask for an introduction and not give one in return. You are…?”

This seemed to knock the other boys into action, making them remember their etiquette. “Well, I’m Terrance Higgs,” said the original boy. He cleared his throat. “This is Adrian Pucey,” he motioned to his right and another brown-haired boy with high cheekbones. “And this is Cassius Warrington.” Cassius actually nodded to him and smiled.

“Where’s Peregrine,” Marcus asked.

Adrian shrugged. “Oh, he’s around here somewhere, probably chasing after Lucian.” He sneered a bit, shuddering theatrically at the very idea.

Marcus nodded in understanding. Peregrine was their absentee friend. He was in his fourth year that year and he made no attempt to hide his preferences. Marcus had no proof, but he suspected that was why the boy hadn’t made the team, even though he had tried every year since his second. Normally, Marcus wouldn’t say anything about Adrian’s attitude, but it nagged at him this time, Marcus thought, for obvious reasons. “You know, for all that you think about where Peregrine sticks his dick, one might think you were jealous.”

Adrian’s face burned a bright cherry red. Whether it be in anger or embarrassment none of them knew, but they all waited with bated breath to see how it all would fall. “Fuck you,” Adrian said, but it wasn’t the lighthearted mockery of a friend. Adrian rose, hands balling into a fist and inching to his wand. “Take it back,” he said threateningly.

All the friendliness left Marcus’s face, draining away into cold, hard, stoicism. He stood up slowly and placed himself in front of his friend, also conveniently blocking his view of Harry. “I want you to think very hard and very carefully about what you do next Pucey,” he said in a deceptively calm whisper, but both his other friends shivered. They knew better, and he felt Harry stiffen behind him. “Do you really want to do this?”

The two boys stood there in a silent standoff for a long minute. Finally, it was Cassius who broke the tension. “N-now guys, there’s no need for this,” he said with forced humor, standing up and putting a hand on Adrian’s shoulder. He looked cautiously at Marcus but did not touch him.

Finally, Adrian blinked and backed up. “Fuck this,” he mumbled and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

The three observers gave a sigh of relief and Marcus resumed his seat next to Harry. “I… I’m gonna go to the toilet a minute,” Harry said. I should probably sort my robes.” He gave Marcus knee a bit of a squeeze and stood up, making his exit.

“Damn dude, what the hell was that…” Marcus just shrugged and said nothing.

Sometime later the four boys were seated together in the cabin. Harry was in his unmarked school robes and the four had essentially split off into pairs. Marcus and Terrence were sitting across from each other playing exploding snap, and talking about the upcoming quidditch season…

“So, you convinced your mother to let you stay on the team then,” Terrance was asking him.

Marcus shook his head negatively. “Not really. It was a bit of a busy week. If I didn’t know better I’d think she forgot.”

Terrance scoffed. “Yeah because that happens,” He said sarcastically.

Marcus nodded in agreement. “Dad probably had something to do with it, but if its all the same to you I’d rather not think about it.” A statement to which Terrance laughed and agreed.

Meanwhile, Cassius and Harry were talking among themselves. “So, what house do you think you’ll be in.

Harry had considered the question and he really had no idea. He thought he could fit in just about any of them and told Cassius that. “If you listen to this brute I’ll be a Ravenclaw,” he said pointing at Marcus.

Marcus looked at Harry and stuck his tongue out, which Cassius and Terrance found hilarious. “When I found you today you had your nose buried in the Prophet reading.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “OK, one, it was about me; and two, we can’t all be meathead jocks,” Harry poked at him. “And also, for good measure, three – suck my dick.”

“Harry Potter,” this from Terrance in mock outrage. “You are eleven-years-old, do not talk like that!”

Harry just chuckled. “Anyway, I can see that. I can also see Hufflepuff. I appreciate a good friend.” He didn’t bother to tell them that until last week he didn’t have any. “And you guys are pretty cool. I’d be alright if I ended up in Slytherin.”

That was quite the surprise to the others. The idea that Harry Potter would be anything other than a lion… Of course, he didn’t tell them that the fact that Marcus was a Slytherin was also a factor. “Not a Gryffindor,” Cassius asked what they all were thinking. “You know that your parents were Gryffindor…”

“It’s possible,” Harry agreed. “I do like to think that I’m brave, but I don’t consider it just because my parents were Gryffindor.”

The lights dimmed, bringing the conversation to a close. “Well, the station is about two minutes out,” Terrance explained for Harry’s benefit. Harry reached for Hedwig and her cage. “No, leave them. Although, open the cage if you want,” he stopped the boy. “The house-elves will handle your things.”

Soon the train did indeed stop and empty. Harry and his new friends stepped out on the platform. “We’ll see you inside Harry, good luck,” Cassius said as Hagrid’s familiar voice started to call for the first years. Terrance nodded and started to walk away.

Before Harry could depart, however, Marcus grabbed his hand. “Come with me,” he said conspiratorially. “Trust me,” he said when Harry looked back at Hagrid a few feet away, unsure. He nodded, however, and let Marcus pull him away from the platform.

“Where are we going,” he asked but Marcus didn’t answer. He led Harry away and toward what Harry thought were stagecoaches, but it was hard to tell in the dark. As they got closer Harry could see that they were indeed carriages, but he was shocked. “What the hell are those?” Attached to the carriages were what Harry thought were horses, but they were skeletal, their skin hanging off their bodies and dead milky eyes.

Marcus looked at Harry questioningly. “You can see them?” When Harry nodded affirmative so did he. “Thasterals, scary but harmless. I’m not surprised that you can see them.” He took Harry to an empty carriage and ushered him in, climbing in after him. He took his wand and tapped the carriage. In response it jolted to life and started down the path.

“Where are we going,” Harry asked again curiously.

“Up to the Castle,” the Slytherin replied simply.

Harry looked confused. “Couldn’t I have just followed the other first years then,” he asked.

“Well yeah. They’re headed that way too, going the long way through the lake. It’s all very whimsical and inspiring, meant to be impressive, but what they don’t tell ya is that there’s a ward – a spell – attached to the dock at the other end. When you pass through it, it attaches a trace to your magical signature that lets the Ministry know when you do magic outside Hogwarts.”

Before Harry could respond, the Carriage stopped, and Marcus opened the door climbing out. “Besides,” he said holding the door for Harry. “This way you got to spend more time with me,” he smiled smugly.

“True,” Harry looked thoughtful and nodded in agreement.

Marcus led him up the stairs and through the massive double doors into the entrance hall. Good, he thought. McGonagall wasn’t here yet. He pointed Harry to a room off the hall. “Wait in there. The First years will be along soon, and a professor will lead you in to be sorted.”

He turned to rush off, but Harry stopped him, pulling at his arm. He looked back at the other boy askance. “Harry what is it, I got to go.”

“Come here!” Harry urged him and he stepped closer. Harry rose up on his toes, but still being significantly shorter than the fifth year, pulled Marcus down to meet him. The boy came willingly, and Harry pressed his lips to his cheek. “Thank you…”

Marcus straightened up, looking down at the shorter boy in surprise, and brought his hand up to touch his cheek. “Go, ya big lug!” Harry smiled and pushed the teen away. That seemed to do the trick, and Marcus turned to go, and Harry went the opposite way into the antechamber Marcus indicated.

About fifteen minutes or so later, Harry found himself in a single file line with the other first years, looking around in wonder with the rest of them. He was looking up at the starry night above the Hall. Truthfully, even on the train, he half expected to wake up and find himself back in his cupboard, but that… That was overtly magical and cemented it all in a way that had been lacking. “Its enchanted to display the view outside,” A bushy haired girl said to him in a whisper.

“I know, “ He nodded

The Professor, McGonagall, placed an old hat on a stool and everyone waited. This was the Sorting hat; he knew but even still listened avidly as it sang its poem of the four houses and their founders. He wanted to absorb every bit of that night.

“Now, when I call your name step up and place the hat on your head.” The professor stated sternly and cleared her throat. “Hannah Abbot.” And so, it went. Some were placed quickly, like Draco Malfoy, whom the hat pronounced as Slytherin seemingly before the hat was placed on his head, and Pansy Parkinson who followed him. Others took slightly longer. Like, Hermione Granger, the bushy haired girl who was placed in Gryffindor, or Neville Longbottom who seemed to take almost a half an hour before the hat shouted HUFFLEPUFF. He looked decidedly dejected at the verdict. Finally, it was his go and McGonagall called him up. “Harry Potter.”

The hall that until that point had been buzzing with quiet chatter, fell completely silent. Harry gathered his courage, squared his shoulders, and marched up to the hat, his shoes clicking on the stone floor. He nodded to McGonagall that he was ready and turned to face the crowd as she placed the hat. _Well this is certainly interesting_ ; he heard the hat. Wondering what was interesting the hat answered, _it’s rather crowded in here_. _You certainly aren’t what everyone is expecting are you?_ Harry thought several things at once. He was happy at the hats diagnosis and wondered what it meant. He also thought about expectations and his conversation with Cassius. The thought apparently made the hat chuckle. _Well it would certainly fit. With your drive for independence and effort to prove yourself, but I think not. You are correct, you’d fit in anywhere, but given your determination and your bond to your mate… I think you’ll be great in…_ “SLYTHERIN!”

Harry released his breath and took the hat off, handing it to the professor. The hall was still silent, shocked by the hats proclamation. He did his best to ignore it and made his way over to the sea of green. He sat down at the next open seat with a group of first years. It wasn’t until he was fully seated, and the snake crest formed on his robe – like they didn’t trust it till then – that they exploded in cheers. Several of his housemates around him slapped him on the back and shoulders. Some of the older years even pulled their wands letting off green sparks.

Nobody noticed that the rest of the hall did not share in their enthusiasm.

They all went quiet as a loud crack was heard at the head table. The headmaster was standing with his wand raised. “While we can all appreciate the celebratory reaction, I believe we should allow Professor McGonagall to finish so that we can all eat,” he said with twinkling eyes.

Clearing her throat, the professor resumed the sorting. “Thank you headmaster,” she said in a thick Scottish lilt.

“Welcome to Slytherin”, Draco Malfoy said extending his hand. “You certainly know how to cause a scene.”

Harry took it in kind. “Apparently,” he said. “Though everyone’s preconceived notions are hardly my fault.”

Harry spoke quietly with Draco and his friend Theodore Nott thought the sorting, and others as they joined. Mostly about inconsequential things. Harry was happy to sit back and let them do the talking until he could contribute more substantively. That was until he was addressed directly. “So, word is that you were raised by muggles,” Pansy said on the other side of Draco. Harry nodded. He saw no reason to deny what was public knowledge. “That must have been awful!” She exclaimed sympathetically.

Harry started to speak, to correct her and say that muggles weren’t that bad, but then he hesitated. He thought about the Dursley’s and living with them, their hatred of even the word magic and how they treated him and nodded. “It was, but its alright now.” He looked down the table and found Marcus and his friends. Marcus must have felt him looking because he looked back at Harry and smiled.

“I’m home now…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, end of chapter. I hope everyone enjoyed. Parts of that were a blast to write. The Fruff was Totally unintended! One of those things that just sort of happens as you go.
> 
> Importantly, Harry's lack of interaction to this point has obviously affected their placement. I speak of course of Neville who I love. I do not wish to be mean to him. Similarly Hermione, her lack of contact with Harry would have placed her in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, but I admit I have a plan for her that requires her placement in Gryffindor.
> 
> Gieyson Ollivander - This is pronounced Jay-son and is admittedly a small part, but is an omage to one of my favorite fic authors JayColin


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so... quick start of Chapter notes. I am a bit late. I never really gave an update schedule true, but I intended to have this out sooner. I had a bit of a rough start at the beginning, but it's here now and I Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Secondly, some readers have had what seems to be a bit of an issue with the swearing. I have addressed this, but in light of it I feel the need to make a clarification for the future. This fic Is tagged Underage. Harry is 11 and Marcus is 15, these things are tagged, but I will be adding a tag now because even though it hasn't happened yet there will be underaged Sex and if the swearing is an issue that certainly will be. So turn back now if it is because this will probably be the only warning.

“…As a final note, barring any emergency of the life and limb nature, direct any questions or concerns to one of your prefects,” Severus Snape concluded his start-of-term speech to his snakes with his customary stoic drawl. “If you could please identify yourselves.” Three Slytherin’s, two boys and a girl did as they were bade and Snape waited for the First years to take note. “They will aide you or direct you to the appropriate professor. Are there any extent questions?”

Snape nodded minutely when no one raised their hands, spoke up, or otherwise made inquiry; turning briskly and escaping the Slytherin commons. Making his way down the dark corridor to his office and more specifically the private quarters beyond them, Snape kept his pace even and controlled. He only allowed himself a moment to break composure when he was safely alone, in his quarters, sagging with his back against the locked door with privacy wards erected. 

“Bloody hell,” he whispered quietly. Harry Potter was in his house. He was Potters head-of-house. Harry Potter was in Slytherin. He kept thinking those things to himself over and over again. He knew them to be true. He had heard the Hat call out Slytherin for Potter, seen the boy for himself, yet somehow he – a master of the mind arts – failed to grasp that.

The implications were both catastrophic and mind-numbingly hilarious. Part of him was furious. The idea of having Potter so close at hand, in his house and having to look at him every day infuriated him. The idea of having to look at the face of the man he hated, every day, enraging. Yet, the idea of Potters spawn being his charge, being in Slytherin… Vindictive laughter bubbled up inside of him and he made no effort to hide it, or to stop it. Clutching the door for support, he bellowed a deep and proper laugh for what was likely the first time in a decade. He was sure had any of the students, and possibly the professors, seen him they would be terrified, believing that he had lost his senses.

Maybe I am, he thought to himself a few minutes later after he regained control of himself. He took a deep breath, pulling his occlumency shields over his thoughts and a calm façade fell over him like a veil. He pulled his wand from his robe and with a quick ‘horologe’, nodding to himself as the smokey numbers flowed from his wand reading 10:27p.m. He nodded approvingly and waved his wand at the smokey numbers, forcing them to dissipate. Good, three minutes to spare. “I could use a drink…”

He was due to meet with an old friend at ten-thirty for one last drink. It was nothing too extreme, he had no intention of getting pissed. It was simply a standing tradition. They used to share a snifter at Hogwarts before the start of term as students – they would have to sneak it into the dorm – and afterward it had simply continued in a much less clandestine fashion, discussing any number of topics: The First years for that given year – this was often a topic given the timing – Ministry Politics, possible holiday plans – as they would likely not see each other again until then, baring issue – They would even reminisce about the good old days at times – few that there were.  
Well, he definitely had something that he could discuss! In the small sitting area of his quarters there sat, as with many rooms in Hogwarts castle, a cold fireplace. Pointing his wand at it, the hearth burst into flame with a quiet woosh as he approached, bathing the room in light. He took a pinch of floo powder from the jar on the mantle. “Ragnatela,” and tossed it into the flames, as he to stepped in and disappeared.

Floo travel, or any sort of magical travel – Floo, portkey and apparition – were officially restricted at Hogwarts. If you tied to Apparate you would get a rather nasty surprise curtesy the wards, but interestingly outbound Floo travel was permitted from a professors office or quarters. Although, he would have to walk back from the gates upon return.

He was greeted at his destination by the soft sounds of jazz piano wafting softly through what he knew was his friends private study. He could hear the soft crackle of a fire, and the gentle pitter-patter of September rain on the windows and felt himself smile as he reveled in the peaceful civility. He opened his eyes to the mellow amber of firelight casting cool shadow over dark mahogany. He could already feel his anxiety soothing.

“It is a rare sight, indeed,” came a deep, rich accented voice near the hearth. “…To see a smile on the face of Severus Snape. Come and sit my friend.” Snape moved to the offered seat, guided by the clink of wine glasses and the gentle splashing of wine meeting crystal. “Amarone del Valpolicella Selezione. I hope you enjoy.”

Severus hummed in approval, but the two men otherwise sat content for a time to let the silence stretch. He took the glass delicately by the stem – if you took it by the head body heat would warm the wine and affect the flavor – and swirled it gently, admiring the deep red colour that seemed to be even deeper in the firelight and took a sip, moving it around his palate. He nodded appreciatingly and took another indulgent sip before breaking the silence. “I would ask the occasion for such a segregated vintage, but it would be unnecessary. You need only ask.”

His friend nodded with a sigh. “How is he then,” he asked – not quite concealing his curiosity. “Is he well, what house did he join, did he seem happy…”

Severus chuckled and placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder in an effort to calm the tide of questions. “You can relax. As luck would have it he is in my house, and he seems healthy. It has only been a few hours, but he seems healthy and as happy as one would expect a typical eleven-year-old brat to be, if slightly arrogant.”

His friend chortled in amusement. For all of Severus’s exceptional hatred of children, he did not understand why he would choose to be a professor. He had tried several times over the years to ask why, but Severus refused to answer. Instead he responded with “Well, he can hardly be blamed for that. Surety is in his blood after all.”

The look that Severus shot him out of the corner of his eye said plainly that he did not appreciate the other man’s sense of humour. “For my own sake,” Snape responded, punctuated by a rather large swallow of wine. “Let us hope that you are wrong in that assertion.”

The other man quirked a brow curiously sipping at his own glass. “I shall attempt not to take offense,” he chuckled. “Surely, however, you exaggerate? Young and arrogant I will concede, but you said yourself term has just begun, and you barely know the boy.”

“Mm,” the Slytherin head hummed questioningly before the statement actually registered. He shook his head waving off his friend. “No, no not your… There were some surprises had at the feast tonight.” At least one, he corrected himself. The rest had been rather on par. “Potter was sorted tonight.” 

The other man nodded and freshened his wine, but otherwise remained silent, content to allow his friend to rant as he knew he would. They had both known that the boy would be sorted that night as well. Practically you whole of Britain knew that Potter was – finally – due to attend Hogwarts. Severus had certainly ranted about it enough in the past few weeks.

“Yes, Potter was indeed sorted tonight,” Severus reiterated with a slight edge. “…Into Slytherin!”

The announcement caused even Snape’s normally unflappable friend to falter, wine glass coming to a stop with a jerk before it could meet lips. “I’m sorry, I’m sure that I misheard you. Could you repeat that for me.” He, like many others had thought, with some cause, that the Potter heir would end up in Gryffindor. It was true, and obviously correct that, that wasn’t a given, but with a legacy of Gryffindor Potters behind him and a Muggleborn mother of the same, it had been a given, or so they thought. There were outlying examples of course; Sirius Black having broken a century of tradition being a prominent example, but there were others peppered throughout history. Having said that, it was extremely rare.

“Harry bloody Potter has been made a member of House Slytherin,” Snape said unnecessarily, they both knew that the other man had heard. For what was easily the next half an hour Snape proceeded to reiterate his view of the sorting and Hogwarts introduction to Harry Potter. He told the man how Potter had sauntered into the hall as if he owned the place, with seemingly no regard for ceremony; how he held court at the table and refused to associate with the other first years, remaining silent throughout the meal and watching the door as if he had better things to do. All the while, as he continued his tale, drinking yet more wine. “Bloody Potter,” he said, his words slightly slurred by that point. “Thinks he’s so much better than the rest of us, just like his father. Worse I bet, just cause he’s a celebrity,” Snape spat the word like it was poison.

“Okay…!” his host called with a beleaguered sigh and stood up, taking the drained glass from his friends grasp and taking the bottle and sitting it on the floor by his chair, out of Severus’s view. He had listened to the potions master’s rant about what he expected of Potter a few times over the last month and a half – ever since the Daily Prophet began its own speculation – but the introduction of wine to the equation seemed to have exasperated the matter “That’s enough wine tonight,” he said as he sat back down. “I’m certain it’s not all that bad. The boy is eleven years old Severus.” 

Severus rewarded him with a critical glance. “Of course, you would think that. You don’t know the boy.”

“No, I don’t,” he conceded the point easily and pressed his own. “Neither do you!” The two were quiet for a few moments as they both considered, one his friend words and the other if he should press the issue and continue. He decided that yes, he should and spoke with candor. “Severus, you and I have been friends since we were twelve years old and that is because we do not pander to each other, yes?”

Snape looked sidelong at his friend but nodded. “Say what you will Vlasios,” he grunted dispassionately. He knew that he would not like whatever his friend was about to say, but they had always been brutally honest with one another.

“You are being childish.” Severus turned to glare. “You are and you know that. The boy is no more his father then you are you own.” This caused Severus to jolt upright preparing to argue but Vlasios barreled on. “…And while I question the veracity of your claims about the boy; everyone knows he was raised by muggles and I doubt his fame affected him there. If you genuinely think that is the case then simply don’t treat him as a celebrity, treat him as you would any other of your Slytherins.”

Severus began to retort, but halted, struck by Vlasios statement, and sat back in thought. The duo sat like that in companionable silence for a time before Vlasios stood with a tired sigh, picking up the wine and glasses. “It is getting late, and you have had much to drink my friend. You are welcome to a guest room. If you have need feel free to call an elf. Good night my friend.”

With that Vlasios disappeared, intent to find his own bed.

* * *

  
For all of the wander and whimsy of life at Hogwarts: The Sorting, the feasts, the ghosts, the magic -one of the less popular aspects was the curfew. After the welcome feast and evening dinner, students are sequestered to their common rooms from nine p.m. to six a.m. the next morning. For a First year this is a non-issue; the excitement of the day having them asleep before their heads hit the pillow. For older students, such as Marcus and his friends that wasn’t so advantageous. 

With no time for lights-out, that left them stuck for hours. On any other night this would not be an issue, students sneaking out at all hours for this or that, but on the first night Professors and Prefects were always extra vigilant; and so it was that Marcus found himself stuck in his dorm with his two year mates Terence and Adrian, the latter remaining stubbornly resolute in his silence, still chafed by the confrontation on the express.

Peregrine and Cassius were both fourth years and did not share a dorm with the three fifth years, and the other two of the five occupant dorm had retreated to the silence of their beds with the curtains drawn, intent to escape the awkward atmosphere.

For his part, Marcus was content to ignore it. He lay in his bed, staring up at the canopy, head resting on his forearm – dressed only in a light pajama shirt that hung open and tight clingy boxer-briefs – thinking about Harry as he often did now, or in this case not thinking at all, simply focused on the low hum of the imprint bond in the back of his mind. He idly wondered if Harry had noticed it yet but thought not. He had only really felt it react when he had met Harry on the train.

Not for the first time, Marcus’s mind turned to his bond and he sighed as he again considered how he was going to tell Harry. He knew that he had too, and the easiest way was just to do it, state the facts. He wasn’t one to sugar-coat, but the thought of doing it like that just didn’t sit right. 

He growled and flipped onto his side, frustrated. That was apparently the last straw for Terence, who sighed in exasperation. He had obviously misinterpreted the gesture. “Oh, for fucks sake!” he exclaimed from his own bed. “Will you bastards get over your issues? I do not want to be dealing with this petty shit for two weeks because your dumb asses can’t get along!”

Marcus turned and sat up. He looked at Terence with a questioning quirk of his brow. “The only issue I have is Pucey getting in my face like a muggle ape,” he shrugged it off. “…And I let that go as soon as he was gone.” 

Terence nodded. He had been there after all; Marcus had let it go, gone from ready to fight to passive as soon as Adrian had stepped out. Knowing his best friend as well as he did, he was impressed.

Adrian scoffed in response. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you Flint, and you know that wasn’t the issue.”

Marcus shrugged. “I never said I didn’t understand it.” He definitely understood the impulse. In fact, the other Slytherin had no idea how close he came to having his face turned into mash, how much control it took him not to snap Adrian like a twig and he told the other boy as much. “I get it, but I don’t appreciate it; and if you don’t think I can curse your ass six ways from next week as fast as throw a punch then you don’t know me near as well as you think you do Pucey. Frankly, the only thing that saved you was Potter being there.”

“Marcus!” Terence yelled, glaring angrily. “Unnecessary!”

“And I don’t appreciate being called a faggot!” Adrian said simultaneously, eyes burning furiously. “From the sound of it, it sounds like you might be the homo,” he grinned viciously as the thought occurred to him and he tried to turn the tables. “Since when do you care about a first year anyway,” he asked with a smirk. “I never took you for a kiddie fiddler Marcus.”

Marcus just shrugged off the insinuation. He knew it was meant to be an insult, but he supposed it was true. Granted, He and Harry hadn’t had sex yet, but Harry was his imprint, and he knew they probably would at some point sooner or later. Besides, he knew that his lack of reaction would annoy Adrian more than any response he would give. “Like I said, I have no issue with you as long as you stay out of my face. I never said you were a fag. If you took it that way that’s on you, but honestly? I don’t think you have as big a problem as you play at. If being a Homo really bothered you then you wouldn’t be friends with Peregrine or Lucian.”

Adrian fumed at the assertion but did not retaliate, and Terence just smirked. Despite being a pureblood, his friend was not skilled in the social graces. Marcus tended to be a verbal wrecking ball and just told you how he thought it was. That tended to rub people wrong, but Terence appreciated it. In a politically charged environment that was the Slytherin Dorms, Terence knew what he was getting with Marcus and appreciated that.

The silence that hung as a result was less oppressive, but there wasn’t much that could be said to that, so the dispute ended, at least for the night, and Adrian retreated behind the curtains of his bed to sulk. “Well, that was fun!” Terence said sarcastically. “Did you have to tweak him like that?”

“Of course, I do,” Marcus grinned smugly. “If he can’t take it he should have been a puff.”

The other boy scowled, chuckling despite his effort to seem pissy. “You are an utter and complete asshole, Marcus Flint.”

“Yes, I am,” he agreed. “I never pretended otherwise.”

“So, I don’t believe Adrian, of course, but what is going on?” Terence asked after a pause. “Harry fucking Potter in Slytherin! How the hell did you pull that off?”

Marcus just shook his head and waved Terence off. “I didn’t do anything. We met in the Alley at Malkin’s, but I wouldn’t say I had anything with his sorting.”

“If you didn’t have any hand in his sorting then I’m a Gryffindor. He looked quite excited talking to you and showing you his wand and everything,” Terence teased him.

“He’s a first year with his first wand,” Marcus shrugged. “Of course, he’s excited, and I don’t have any reason to be a dick to him.”

Terence squinted at the other boy. “Really,” He asked bizarrely. “You don’t see a reason to not be chummy with Harry Potter?” 

Marcus rolled his eyes. Terence insinuation was obvious. “He’s dead, why shouldn’t I? Besides, the biggest issue we have with Muggle-raised and Mud bloods is that they won’t assimilate, right?” Terence nodded. That was a large part of it, yes. “So, would you rather the last Potter learn his heritage properly, or through the likes of Gryffindors and Dumbledore?”

Terence studied Marcus critically, more than a bit surprised at his friends logic. It wasn’t bad. “You know what?” He asked grinning. “You hide it, but you are a devious mother fucker. I see you…”

* * *

The dorm was quiet, broken by Marcus tossing and turning fitfully in his sleep in the grip of a nightmare, sweat marring his face. The other occupants long since drifting off to sleep. The room was cast in darkness and cold, the fire of the hearth having died to embers.

“Ah!” he hollered, jolting awake and sitting bolt upright, panting heavily. “Fuck!” He yelled, grateful for the silencing charm around the drapes. He took a deep breath, trying to bring his breathing under control. “…The fuck was that?” The dregs of the dream clung to his sub conscience but danced away when he tied to think about it. All that he remembered was heat and a high-pitched cackle, then there was a flash and…nothing. He’d had the dream a couple of times in the last few weeks, but…

He tossed back the curtain and swiveled to sit on the side of the bed with his head in hand. “Elf!” He called out in a quiet but firm voice. Hogwarts students didn’t generally call for elves, but that was more due to a lack of forethought rather than being against the rules. 

He heard a soft pop and a question. “You’s should be sleeping. How can Podrey be helping young sir?”

“Trust me, I would rather be sleeping, but I’d prefer it be peaceful,” he said without looking up. “If it’s no trouble I could use some hot cocoa, and make sure the fire is going in the common room, please.”

The little elf nodded and popped away. Taking another minute, he stood and made his way out of the dorm and into the common room, adjusting himself as he went. A combination of the iridescent glow of the lake waters and the hearth light greeted him as he entered the empty commons, or so he thought. A lone small figure lay asleep, curled up on the corner of the sofa in front he the fire – Harry potter – with a book dangling haphazardly from loose fingers.

He just shook his head in mock exasperation and smiled. ”Fucking nerd,” he said fondly with a smile that didn’t match the statement. He approached and carefully took the book, looking at the title as he sat it down on the table proper – 

> **Hogwarts: A History.**   
>  **Student Handbook &**   
>  **Compendium of Rules &**   
>  **Procedures**

Because of course it is, he derided humorously. “My mate is a nerd. This is going to be fun,” he whispered as he reached out to gently take the boys glasses.

As he did that Harry stirred and sat up. “Bear…” He mumbled sleepily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What time is it?”

Marcus patted himself down in search of his wand and found nothing. “I left my wand in the dorm,” he said as he sat down next to the young wizard. “…But it’s late. What are you doing up, you’re not homesick are you?”

Harry scoffed at the very insinuation that he would in any way miss the Dursley household, not that Marcus would have any idea about that, he knew. “Oh god no. Just couldn’t sleep and I thought I better brush up on my new surroundings.” 

There was a Pop and two steaming mugs sat on the table in front of them. Podrey had obviously anticipated Harry waking up. Harry looked at the mugs, suspect and back to Marcus in question. “It’s cocoa,” he supplied. “I couldn’t sleep either.” He felt no need to specify that he had only specified a single cup as Harry smiled up at him gratefully and took one.

The two sat in an affable silence for a time, simply relaxing in each other’s company and enjoying their cocoa. Knowing or not, Harry leaned in, closer and closer to Marcus as he watched a squid swing across the lake and his vision, until he was leaning comfortably against the other boys solid form as he had done on the train. He still couldn’t believe where he found himself, or that they were under the lake, even as part of him was terrified because he couldn’t swim.

“Hogwarts is… a dream come true.” Harry spoke quietly, mostly to himself rather then Marcus. That much was obvious as he spoke, but Marcus listened attentively, eager for insight into his mate. “When I was little I used to wish that my mum and dad would come and whisk me away from my aunt and uncles.” He smiled bittersweetly at the memory of all his birthday wishes. “And then it actually happened,” he laughed as he remembered his birthday wish this year. He had drawn a cake with candles and wished with all his heart as he blew the dirt away. 

Had it actually been Magic, he wondered. Had his magic, his wish been what had brought Hagrid to the shack by the sea? Realistically, he doubted it. Then again, his idea of what was ‘realistic’ had been challenged a great deal in recent weeks, he thought. He decided then and there that, true or not, he liked that idea, and it was what he chose to believe.

“Still,” he thought pessimistically. “If my time with the muggles has taught me anything it’s how to adapt, and if something seems too good to be true then it probably is.” What was that old saying? He had heard an old neighbor say it once. “Everything has a cost – equivalent exchange.” H couldn’t help but think that applied here more than ever.

Marcus nodded, unseen by Harry who was staring into the flames, with a frown. He didn’t like any of what he was hearing. Pessimism didn’t fit his mate at all. He didn’t like it and pulled Harry tighter to him. “It’s a basic magical concept. You get what you give and there is a price for every action.”

Harry nodded in understanding. It made since and served to confirm his thoughts. He had been given this great gift and he would not change it for the world, but he would have to pay for it. He couldn’t help but think about the Professor and his speech to them. Any private disputes were to be settled privately, there in the dorm. Professor Snape had stated very bluntly that the other houses were not fond of Slytherin and that outside the commons they were to stick together.

He even remembered a redhead boy that he had met before the sorting. Ronald Weasley, he thought his name was. The boy had gone to Gryffindor, but he had been adamant that any wizard who went to the house of snakes was dark. Harry didn’t believe that. He wasn’t about to judge based on what other people thought, but even so, he didn’t think being sorted into Slytherin would make him exceedingly popular, and he said as much. “If I’m gonna survive and adapt then I have to know the rules of my situation, literal and otherwise.”

Marcus sneered and held Harry tighter still; so tightly that Harry thought that it would bruise, but the idea didn’t bother him. He could tell Marcus was perturbed, but not at him. He knew Marcus’s ire was in his defense. “If anyone bothers you, you come to me,” he said sternly.

Harry didn’t need to be defended. He had spent the last ten years essentially taking care of himself – for what little his relatives provided – but the idea that someone would, that they wanted too was… nice, was the closest he could think. He didn’t really have anything to compare it to. “My Hero…” he gushed sleepily as his eyes began to drift closed heavily.

“Always…” Marcus whispered, unheard. He sighed and closed his eyes, intent to try and get a couple more hours of sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now End of Chapter notes. 
> 
> OC's- I avoid them like the plague as anything other than Minor plot devices usually to be thrown away when no longer necessary - hate them. Having said that, I have technically included one because he is not in the books, but... additionally he is a Character in the Harry Potter universe so I will NOT be adding an OC Tag. Both because they are not an OC and will not be playing a major role till Much later if at all.
> 
> Again, having said that, I have left some subtle and not so subtle clues as to who the Character is and I'm a firm believer in reader participation, Can you guess who he is?


End file.
